


Zebras, not Horses

by CAPSING



Series: Finished, not Perfect [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dimension Travel, Gen, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Mild Gore, Mr. Filch Redemption Arc, Translation Available, Translation in Korean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25651951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: Professor Levi is the new P.E. teacher at Hogwarts. No one has any idea what to make of him.
Relationships: Levi Ackerman & Being Fed-Up, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter, The Golden Trio - Relationship
Series: Finished, not Perfect [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/546493
Comments: 51
Kudos: 196





	Zebras, not Horses

**Author's Note:**

> November 2020: Now [ translated into Korean](https://tealeafattic.postype.com/post/8315203), by the lovely Soph! Thank you! ♥

If there was one subject Harry Potter didn’t terribly miss from his experience with the Primary Education System, it was Physical Education. With his short physique and borderline chronic malnutrition, Harry never quite managed to enjoy himself by running around the school yard or being bombarded and bludgeoned by dodgeballs. He hadn’t the energy to spare, nor the muscle-mass to shine through. In his teacher’s eyes, Harry was just another nerdy kid that probably holed himself all day in front of the telly instead of playing outside.

(How wrong they were).

That is why Harry isn’t particularly thrilled when, after the introduction of Professor Umbridge as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Dumbledore continues to introduce yet another unfamiliar face.

“And last but not least, Hogwarts welcomes Professor Levi, our new Physical Education professor.” Dumbledore smiles, and it’s with a lot more sincerity than Umbridge got. “This year sees yet another change, with all students experiencing the opportunity to broaden their horizons as well as themselves!” Dumbledore chuckles, ignoring the groans already emitting from muggle-born students that understand what he means.

“Let us give him a warm welcome.”

A short man stands, radiating reluctance towards the sparse clapping he receives and the hall at large. He looks younger than most of the staff – probably in his late twenties or early thirties, which is the youngest among the High Table. His short black hair is styled with an undercut, the sort that would have Aunt Petunia cross to the other side of the street. He wears a dull green cloak, and a duller expression on his face. Standing, he isn’t taller than Professor Sinistra who’s sitting to his left, keeping a most polite expression as she lightly claps her hands. Nothing about Professor Levi’s figure suggests he’s athletically-inclined.

But competence, or lack of it, never stopped Dumbledore from hiring new Hogwarts staff members.

As soon as the last reluctant clap echoes, Professor Levi sits back in his seat between Professor Sinistra and Professor Flitwick, and starts digging into his food.

“I don’t like the look of him,” Dean Thomas says, a bit too loudly.

According to the muttering of the Great Hall, no one does.

* * *

The rumors regarding Professor Levi’s mysterious origins are getting wilder by the day – and it’s only the second day of the school year. It started with him being from France, a Beauxbatons Academy graduate. From there, it apparently slid to him having a Veela ancestry that explains his taciturn nature – a male Veela must keep quiet, less he seduces the rest of the staff. If Harry hadn’t met Fleur and Gabrielle last year, he might’ve been inclined to believe these rumors, but Professor Levi is nothing like either of them. Others suggest he’s one of the Professors’ illegitimate child or cousin – it varies. Some argue he narrowly escaped Azkaban for some gruesome act, and Professor Dumbledore is providing him sanctuary in Hogwarts. That, Harry thinks, he could probably believe.

So when the rumors about Professor Levi spending most of his time scrubbing the floors of the castle – by hand! – start floating about like bubbles from a bubble-bath, no one takes them seriously.

Until Monday's Transfiguration class, that is.

Gryffindor’s fifth years are taking it with Hufflepuff, and Harry got to class early, Ron and Hermione by his side. Ron is enjoying the rumors a bit too much, throwing his own wild theories around, a bit like his mum, Harry thinks. Hermione, however, turns her nose at every slight to Professor Levi’s character. “He’s still a Professor, Harry!” She argues, “And we haven’t even had any class with him yet!”

There’s the usual murmur of students still catching up with one another after summer’s break, when Professor McGonagall’s familiar voice comes from the hall, through the open door of the classroom.

“Professor Levi,” it greets, “Is there any way I can help you?”

“No,” a voice that must be Professor Levi’s responds, despondent. Rather rudely, Harry privately thinks. The class quickly quiets down, everyone straining their ears to catch the latest gossip-material.

“I see,” Professor McGonagall says, in a tone that very much suggests that she doesn’t. “Is there any reason you’re on the floor, then?”

The class has never been as silent as it is at that moment. Some people are probably reviewing in their minds possible spells to make the class wall transparent, even momentarily.

“I’m cleaning.” Professor Levi replies.

Some students gasp, barely managing to stifle it.

“Cleaning?” Professor McGonagall asks, sounding puzzled.

“Yes.” He pauses, for a moment. “This place is filthy.”

Now the gasps cannot be contained. Every further word from Professor Levi’s mouth would spawn at least ten new rumors. Harry would’ve felt bad for him, but he is being rather rude to the Head of their House.

New professors usually don’t turn out well for Harry, so at least he’s getting a heads-up.

“What a git,” Ron mutters. Only, Ron doesn’t do “muttering” like a normal person. His comment rings in the class, clear as a bell. Harry sinks a bit in his seat. Even after five years with Ron as his best mate, he's not yet impervious to second-hand embarrassment. It might be that it's even doubling, with Ron being so clueless at times.

All the eyes in the classroom turn towards Ron, accusingly, before anxiously turning back towards the open door.

“I see,” Professor McGonagall reiterates, tone considerably less tolerant. “Good luck, then.”

Professor Levi doesn’t respond, at least not out loud.

When Professor McGonagall eventually steps into class, everyone is very pointedly looking at their textbooks, open at random page numbers. The door slams after Professor McGonagall, rather loudly.

“Welcome back,” Professor McGonagall greets them as if nothing happened.

By lunch, it is already said that Professor McGonagall have agreed to duel Professor Levi to the death on the top of the astronomy tower. Professor Flitwick is her second. Professor Levi’s second is his fully-fledged distant-Veela-cousin.

(There are bets.)

(No one actually bets on Professor Levi.)

* * *

“Professor Levi?” Luna asks, blinking slowly. “Yes, I’ve had class with him.” She says pleasantly, and returns to reading her book, which is held upside-down. Harry isn’t sure what language the title is – but the letters are pretty, flowing like art. He thinks the script might be in Thai. He hadn’t known Luna knew how to read Thai.

“I didn’t know you knew Thai, Luna.”

“I don’t.” Luna answers. “That’s why I’m reading this.”

Confused, Harry decides to let it go. He stares glumly at the blank parchment on the desk. Umbridge is not there, but Harry feels anxious by merely holding the quill in his hand. He sets it down, ignoring Hermione's inquisitive eyes. The back of his hand itches.

“What’s he like, then?” Ron asks in Harry's stead, trying to grab at anything else other than studying, as their study-session implies. You could drag Ron to the library, but you couldn’t make him do his assignments before the very last moment.

Luna hums, thoughtful. “I think he’s rather sad.” She says, not looking terribly offended when Ron groans in dismay.

“We have class with him tomorrow,” Hermione says, scribbling away her Charms’ essay in a neat small font.

“With Slytherin,” Ron groans again.

Harry is not looking forwards to it.

* * *

As luck would have it (which it never did, in Harry’s case, unless a dependable adult was dying for his sake in close proximity), Gryffindor had their P.E classes with Slytherin.

Slytherin, with their tailored tracksuits and Pureblood sneers, didn’t seem to like it any better. P.E. Studies, it was agreed in their midst, was Muggle-sympathizer-Dumbledore’s way to forcefully integrate Muggle practices into their lives and break apart their sacred traditions.

“Is everyone here?” Professor Levi asks, the moment it was time to start the class. They're gathered outdoors, not far from the Greenhouses. The castle is at their backs, the Great Lake is to their right, and before them, at a distance, looms the Forbidden Forest.

Professor Levi wasn't quite at looming. Not when the sun was out, and the breeze was tickling at Harry's nose, smelling sweet and flowery. It was a rather odd choice for their class, Harry thought – he figured they'd be training at the Quidditch Pitch. Maybe there were clashing schedules with Professor Hooch?

While Harry was distracted by the outdoors, others decided to question the unusual manner.

And by others, of course, Harry meant –

“Aren’t you going to read our names, Professor?” Hermione asks, sounding only slightly reproachful.

Professor Levi’s face remains passive. “Is everyone here?” He repeats the question, looking directly at Hermione, who seemed somewhat flustered.

Harry gave a quick look-around. The Gryffindors were around him, with the Slytherins lurking at the back. It seemed everyone were.

“Yes, Professor.” Hermione replies.

“Greengrass isn’t here, Professor,” Parvati cut in before Professor Levi replied. Harry could see the Slytherins throwing her dirty looks.

“She isn’t feeling well,” Parkinson cut in forcefully. “She’s at Madam Pomfrey’s.”

Professor Levi took it in rather slowly. At least, Harry thought he did. The lack of physical reactions on the Professor's part was making it rather difficult to tell.

“Anyone else?” Professor Levi asked.

Everyone looked around, taking count. Harry hadn’t noticed Greengrass missing, either. No one seemed to want to risk making a fool of themselves as Hermione unknowingly did.

“No, Professor.” Bulstrode finally said, sounding sour, when it became clear Professor Levi had no problem standing around all day until he’d gotten an answer.

“First lesson,” Professor Levi addressed them, his dark eyes picking them out one by one. His words, Harry noted, had a distinctively Not-French accent. “You should always be aware if any of your classmates are missing.”

Hermione looked so indigent she might’ve just stomped the ground in sheer frustration, but Professor Levi wasn’t even looking her way.

“We’re going to do basic warm-up exercises.”

But this would've required willing participants, and it wasn't going to be as easy as that.

“Why?” Goyle asks, raspy and rude. It was rather surprising, Harry thought – he didn’t know Goyle or Crabbe could utter words without Malfoy’s leave. Goyle, a head taller than Professor Levi, tried to take a full advantage of his troll ancestry by the difference in their build. Perhaps Malfoy sat him up for it, Harry thought, to try and chase off the new addition to the staff.

It was ridiculous enough that Malfoy might've actually thought it'd work.

“So we can exercise properly," Professor Levi replies laconically, "with no injuries. Without proper warm-up, there’s an increased risk of damage to the muscles from physical activity. We’re not going to try anything too challenging yet, but a good warm-up is the base for any training regime.”

Goyle seemed to want to say something else, but Professor Levi’s dismisses him altogether when he instructs people to spread out and take their place so they'd begin.

At least it was nice, Harry thought, to be outdoors. A cold Scottish sun spilled on the damp grass, and the air was fresh and cool. It beat sitting in a dusty classroom with Professor Binns and have your braincells commit suicide, one by one.

Then Professor Levi starts demonstrating their warm-up. He makes the most out of his build, flexible like joints are not a human limitation that affects him. He can touch his toes with his knees straight, which nearly none of them can, other than Nott and Lavender. He bends his limbs to stretches and positions Harry isn’t sure are normal, but attempts anyway. He even sits in front of them with a perfect split as he’s talking them through the warm-up, and Harry wonders if there's some sort of charm that makes your bones flexible like rubber. Since Professor Levi preforms each exercise, and the Slytherins took the path of passive resistance to his instructions, the warm-up ends up taking most of the class.

Professor Levi doesn’t call them by their names, but mostly by their hair colour or style. Ron gets to be Freckles, but Harry is Spikey-hair, Hermione is Fluffy-hair, Malfoy is Blondie, Parkinson is Bowl-cut, and so on and so on. None of the names are offensive, and Harry doesn’t particularly mind.

He’s not scar-face, for once.

It's a refreshing change.

Hermione does mind.

“That’s just not how you go about it,” She rants as they trail back to the castle, sweaty and pleasantly aching. She's probably still miffed about answering a question wrong, even if it was something as small as attendance. “He doesn’t even try learning anyone’s names!”

Before them, the Slytherin fifth years are having heated hissed debate about the experience. They’re probably prissy that their fancy tracksuits now have grass-stains on them.

Harry nods along with Hermione's grievances, and wonders if Professor Levi calls Ginny “Freckles”, too.

* * *

For their second class, on Thursday, they play a rather unique game of tag. Two people are ‘It’, one from each House. Whoever catches more people – wins.

For the rules, however–

“Anyone caught is dead.” Professor Levi explains to them dispassionately, arms crossed over his chest. “If you’re caught, you are going to drop onto the grass. Then, you’re going to reflect on your life. Everything you inspired to be, and was cut short. Imagine the faces of your parents when they hear the news of your death. Picture your parents crying over your dead body. And the rest of you, until you're caught, you’re going to watch your co– “ He coughs. “Your classmates, that you failed to save. And as you run from death, look at their bodies and think who you are leaving behind.”

Not even a cricket dares to chirp after those instructions.

“Well?” Professor Levi calls after a few moments, as if all of what just came out of his mouth is completely normal. “Get on with it.”

“He’s completely mental,” Ron hisses at Harry as they run half-heartedly away from Parvati.

“You think?” Harry pants back, having to keep with Ron’s longer strides.

At least they can watch Malfoy sulking and raging and not managing to catch almost anyone. That’s pretty funny, Harry thinks. And better than having either Crabbe or Goyle tackle them to the ground.

“You’re pretty happy, for a body.” Professor Levi looms over Harry, who had been staring at the clouds and enjoying the short reprieve being caught allowed him for the past few minutes. It smells like grass and dirt, damper than the Quidditch Pitch. It's a nice smell, when you can smell it from above, rather than below.

“Not really, sir.” Harry replies.

“That’s not the face of a person who’s picturing their parents crying over their dead body.” Professor Levi frowns down at him.

“That’s unlikely to happen, as they’re both dead, sir.” Harry snips back, annoyed. It’s not like he flaunts his celebrity-status around, like many insist – but you’d have to live under a rock as not to know that Harry's an orphan.

A rock on the moon. And even then, your residence would have to be at least two miles under it.

Professor Levi’s features flicker to almost-an-expression. He seems– regretful?

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Professor Levi says, like a person with actual feelings. “That was a shitty comment to make.”

Harry thinks he might have been dropped to a different dimension.

Was this a Hogwarts Professor admitting a mistake they’ve made? It couldn’t possibly.

“You can look at the clouds this round, Spikey-hair.” Professor Levi allows, nodding at Harry. “Also, after class you’re going to Madam Pomfrey about that rash you’re having on your right hand.” Then he goes to pass judgement on the other student’s ability to reflect upon their untimely deaths.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. No other Professor noticed the results of his detentions with Umbridge.

When Harry looks up at the sky, they almost seem brighter than before. Just a tad.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey is livid.

Harry is pretty familiar with the school’s mediwitch, more so than most of the students that ever graced Hogwarts throughout the years. This is beyond her reaction in his first year, when he woke up after the magical obstacle course on his way to the first assassination attempt on his life. Or in second year, with Lockhart dissolving all the bones in his arm when he broke it. Or to the Dementors prowling around the doors to the infirmary when Fudge tried to find Sirius for the Kiss a year after. Or the burns Fleur had from the first task, the year after that, with an overall fury for the employment of dragons in the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry shrinks back onto the bed, tugging his hand back from Madam Pomfrey's grip and out of sight.

“This–“ Madam Pomfrey seems to struggle for words, then her expression changes, becoming resolute.

“You stay right here, Mr. Potter,” she commands, probably aware Harry wants to make a run for it.

He nods and tries to hide behind to curtain to the best of his ability, wishing very much for his cloak of invisibility.

* * *

By the end of the day, Professor McGonagall summons Harry to her office. He leaves the infirmary with fresh bandages covering his right hand, a jar of a special balm that cools his skin, and instructions for a checkup in three days.

Professor McGonagall makes him a tea that’s too sweet, forces some biscuits into him, and tells him he is no longer taking his detentions with Professor Umbridge, but with either her or Professor Snape.

The back of Harry’s hand tingles, and he obligingly picks another biscuit to nibble on. He'd rather scrub a thousand cauldrons with Snape than tolerate five minutes with Umbridge.

An unknown weight lifts from his heart, and suddenly the prospect of the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class he has doesn’t seem as bleak as it had been, even if Umbridge would still be there.

* * *

Professor Levi's presence continues to puzzle the Hogwarts' student body. No one even knows his first name, and not for a lack of snooping. Someone, probably a muggle-born, had stated that Professor's Levi first name is clearly Bonaparte. It probably started as a joke, Harry imagines, and not a very good one at that. However, this resulted in a dispute between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, since Ravenclaw insists "Napoleon" was Napoleon's first name, while Hufflepuff dismisses the idea, saying the man's name couldn't have possibly been "Napoleon Napoleon."

Since there are no European history books in the Hogwarts' library, the next week opens with a flock of owls swarming the Ravenclaw table, dropping history textbooks into their breakfasts with loud thuds and angry hoots.

The Hufflepuffs are unimpressed with their apparent defeat, not letting it to slow them down.

“I’ve heard he is part-goblin." One of them claims. "That’s why he’s scowling all the time. And short.”

“Ew!” Another student whines, as if Professor Flitwick hadn’t been teaching in Hogwarts for the past forty years, and such heritage is unheard of.

“I’ve heard someone saw him sneaking around Gringotts. Maybe he’s a curse-breaker?”

“Or a curse-maker.”

Silence.

“His ears do look a bit pointy.”

There are murmurs of agreement.

By the next day, Professor Levi’s genealogical bloodlines have been traced to make him part-Veela, part-goblin, part-human (though it's up for debate), and arguably a latent-part-vampire.

By the next week, there are seven different other magical creature ancestries added into Professor Levi's extended family tree.

Yet no one knows his first name, which is (probably) not Napoleon.

* * *

Then there’s the whole incident with Mr. Filch.

Mr. Filch had always been an extremely unpleasant man, who detested children but opted to work in a school brimming with them ten out of twelve months of the year. Professor Snape was at least sometimes nice to the Slytherins, but Mr. Filch was an unequivocal sourpuss to all and every one of Hogwarts’ residents, sans Professor Dumbledore.

It is Ginny that brings in the news that she heard from Megan Jones that heard it from Mandy Brocklehurst that heard it from Kevin Entwhistle, who is quite a reliable source, according to Ginny.

Apparently some Slytherin seventh years finished Quidditch practice, and tracked mud all the way from the main entrance to the dungeons. Mr. Filch was almost having kittens, Jones said – he was shouting at them and sputtering. And the seventh years were not having it, and things started to get heated, and Professor Levi just _appeared_. Like he was summoned there. And of course you can't apparate within Hogwarts, but Professor Levi definitely did, because he was, according to everyone – definitely not there.

And then!

And then he put. His. Hand. On. Mr. Filch’s. Shoulder. To calm him down.

And Mr. Filch.

Calmed. Down.

And then– and then! Professor Levi chewed the students out so badly, it was like he was cutting them apart. He didn't curse and he didn't shout but at least one of them almost cried. And he told them to shower, change, and get right back there within fifteen minutes, or there would be consequences.

And they did.

At least that’s what Jones heard, because she had Runes by then. But she heard from Harbor Dots that heard from Rosemary Bristlecone that Professor Levi and Mr. Filch went to a nearby supply closet, and handed the seventh years some mops, and watched them clean the mud they tracked all throughout. He didn’t even care they were missing their classes!

“I knew there’s a reason I didn’t like him,” Dean snorted through his mashed potatoes. “He’s so uptight.”

Harry looks at the High Table, where Professor Levi is sitting next to Mr. Filch. He never quite paid it much mind, that Mr. Filch was seated the furthest away at the table, at its edge, nowhere near Professor Dumbledore. The seats weren’t exclusive, per se, but they tended to have the same formation, through the years.

Professor Levi and Mr. Filch are not talking to one another, just eating, and there seems to be some sort of camaraderie between them.

Maybe Harry is just imagining it, though. Too much potion fumes in the dungeons.

* * *

On a rather cloudy night, it occurs to someone in the castle, then to everyone else, almost like a collective epiphany.

“Say,” a student would say, turning to their friend. “Have you ever seen Professor Levi’s wand?”

* * *

By the end of the day, the verdict is in.

Professor Levi is not part-Veela, or part-goblin, or has a latent or dormant part of a vampire.

Professor Levi is nothing as grand. Much worse, in fact.

Because Professor Levi is a _squib_.

* * *

The next morning is horribly tense. Harry’s not sure why. At breakfast, he turns to Ron for Magic-World-Clarification, please and thank you.

“Well, you see,” Ron says, looking awfully uncomfortable. “It’s just– it’s just not done, Harry,” Ron shrugs, stuffing food into his mouth to avoid having to speak.

“Like how Werewolves being teachers is ‘just not done’?” Harry asks, feeling rather upset by Ron’s attitude.

“That’s not the same thing,” Ron shakes his head, spittle flowing around as he chews with his mouth open. Harry grimaces.

“Because Werewolves are magic?”

“Yes.” Ron spits. “No! That’s not – “

“You’re such a hypocrite, Ron Weasley!” Hermione snaps from her seat in front of them both, making them jolt in surprise. Rather than going onto a rant, as she’s prone to, she pointedly stands up, grabs her bag and stomps out towards their first class, biting angrily at a piece of toast.

“You kinda are,” Harry tells Ron, whose anger quickly turns to dejection. “Don’t worry, she’d forget it by lunchtime.”

* * *

Hermione does not forget it by lunchtime.

Hermione is in a snit.

“She doesn’t even like Professor Levi!” Ron blurts at Harry as they’re brushing their teeth before bed. Hermione had been ignoring him for the entire day, with Harry caught in the passive-aggressive crossfire. By the time they were getting ready for bed, Harry wished Hermione would be the type of person to just sleep their anger off. It wasn't if she wasn't right, but she was the more rational of the two, up until she got emotional. Perhaps he was being unfair, but it was his own wishful thinking he was serving, not his friends'.

“No,” Harry says before rinsing his mouth, then spitting. “But she does love her parents.”

“What does her parents got to do with it?” Ron seems truly perplexed.

“Her non-magical parents.” Harry adds, running his fingers through his hair in front of the mirror.

“It’s pointless, dear,” his reflection tells him cheerfully.

“Oh,” Ron says, as it dawns on him. “I’ve been kind of a git, haven’t I?”

“Kind of,” Harry agrees, patting him on the back for reassurance as they head to bed.

Ron is kind of a git, but Harry is still glad he’s there when the nightmares come screaming.

* * *

Professor Levi’s stakes as a staff member and as a person were lowering exponentially with each passing day, correlated with the dropping temperatures. The owls flutter each morning around the hushed gossip between the students, about their vacant-brained squib professor, who is easily fooled and allied himself alongside Mr. Filch to a miserable pity-duo. Between the both of them, the Slytherins scoff, they don't even have enough magic to order a house elf. No wonder they both act like one, demeaning themselves into manual labor.

Mr. Filch is sprouting a new scarf that he’s wearing everywhere he goes, with soft green hues.

Mrs. Norris is wearing a collar with a matching colour-scheme.

That’s what Ginny heard, anyway. Harry hasn’t seen the cat in a long while, and he’s perfectly fine with it.

Hermione’s temper has cooled as well, and even though Ron never apologizes, she gradually warms back up to him, as they both tend to do.

But the rumors regarding Professor Levi are growing increasingly mean-spirited. Harry’s Slytherin classmates in P.E. are all but snorting at Professor Levi behind his back, doing anything to bend around his instructions. Every other class someone claims to have an ulcer, a pulled muscle, a heel spur, to feel dizzy, have a heatstroke, hypothermia, and other increasingly outlandish conditions. And Professor Levi just– just kind of lets them get away with it. He never deducts points, over anything. At the start of each class he hears who's missing – there's always at least one Slytherin in the Infirmary Rotation – and doesn't put it down. He continues as if nothing had changes.

When Millicent Bulstrode tells him she’s the only one not having _that time of the month_ among her Slytherin peers, looking rather abashed about it, Professor Levi doesn’t say anything.

When she repeats the excuse two weeks later, not meeting his eye, Professor Levi still doesn’t say anything.

The third time it happens, even Harry is feeling bad for her. It’s clear that she’s lying, trying to cover up for her year-mates, this time excusing it as a sudden stomach-bug they caught in their dorms. He realizes Bulstrode is always the one providing the excuses, but never one to miss class.

She’s a good liar – probably a requirement, in Slytherin – but she can’t look Professor Levi in the eye.

“How fortunate it is, then, they have such a reliable classmate, Piggytails.” Professor Levi tells her in response, and though it still lacks in emotion, Harry thinks he's being sincere. “Come on, let’s go stretch.”

* * *

Payback comes in the form of Professor Snape, of all possible manners.

It’s Lavender, this time, that brings news. She heard it from some other gossip vine, how Professor Snape was positively aghast that half of his own house’s fifth years were sick to such an extent, and did not bring it to his attention. Further, that they all suffer so arduously each month, when there were no less than 72 different potions they could try for their condition.

They were going to brew every one of these potions, to stockade the infirmary. And to assist them so they would not be missing further P.E. classes for reasons beyond their control.

Harry thinks he is, perhaps, dreaming.

Professor Snape, acting as a responsible, sensible Head of House?

Next thing they’d know –

Actually, Harry is a bit afraid to find out.

* * *

“Professor Levi is totally shagging Professor Snape”, is the new tidbit of information. Interestingly enough, the top-snoops do not believe it originated from any Slytherin. They are parted into two main camps – the first one argues that Professor Snape wouldn’t drop as low as to drop his trousers in front of a squib. The second one argues the same, only that they factor in that Professor Levi is a man.

Harry tries to stay away from both arguments.

He doesn’t want to picture Professor Snape dropping his trousers, period.

(Unfortunately, it is too late for him.)

(It is kind of nice, though, to hear Ron vouching strongly for the first camp. “Not that I think it’s right,” he’s quick to reassure Hermione, arms gesticulating on the edge of panic. “I just can’t see why it matters that Professor Levi’s a bloke. Not like Snape has some lineage to keep, or anything.”

In his own blunt way, Harry thinks, Ron is a very decent bloke, himself.

More than that, even.

A very good best mate to have.

Harry lucked-out, for once in his life.)

* * *

It was only a matter of time, Harry thinks. The Slytherin’s collective grudge towards Professor Levi grew from incident to rumor to incident. Some of them even believes it was Professor Levi himself that started the rumors meant to slight their Head of House.

Which was idiotic, even by Slytherin standards.

So it’s in February when Draco Malfoy decides he has had enough, and had yet another meltdown, not unlike his antics in their third year with Buckbeak.

Watching with trepidation, Harry thinks it is going to end very badly.

He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about the exchange he had with Professor Levi, way back in their second class. Not because he was trying to hide it; he was about to tell them, that evening, but something came up and he just forgot about it. And later, it just didn’t seem as important. Still, even with Professor Levi being yet another nutcase drawn from Professor Dumbledore’s bottomless loony-bag, Harry thinks he’s a decent sort of person. There’s a haunted look to his eyes, that can't be unseen when noticed. It's like the one Sirius has, when Azkaban creeps into his thoughts and grabs hold. His apathetic expression is nothing more than a shield, or a mask. The laconic tone he has is not by his choice.

Though maybe he’s projecting. Harry does miss Sirius rather terribly. He loves Hogwarts, but he wishes he could spend more time with his Godfather, who looks at him with a look no other adult hold for him. That genuinely enjoys Harry’s company. As Harry. Not since he's The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One. Not one that has eyes that keeps drifting up to look at his scar.

That wants him, just ‘cause he’s Harry.

And this, perhaps, makes Harry just a bit biased towards Professor Levi.

There's also the fact that Malfoy is an insufferable twat.

“This is stupid!” Malfoy whines, panting. They’ve been running around the grounds again, but this time was different – they had to run all the way to the Quidditch Pitch, then back, rather than just go around the greenhouses. And Professor Levi had timed them. Harry wasn't doing much better than Malfoy, lagging behind him through the muddy ground. Most students didn’t make it to Professor Levi’s standards. The times he set seemed arbitrary and outright _magical_ , in the sense that they couldn’t possibly be achieved without some inherent magical ability.

Everyone stops and stare. Probably hoping to catch their breath.

They’re on the top of the hill, looking onto the Great Lake. The sky is cloudy and grey and the sun is thin, but it’s not that cold out.

“What is, Blondie?” Professor Levi asks, not looking up from his watch. He looks as if to check behind Malfoy, for any other students that may be lagging behind.

“This!” Malfoy hisses, stomping towards Professor Levi. His shoes, different from muggle running-shoes or sports-shoes, are soaked with mud, that splattered along his trousers. Malfoy’s cheeks are flushed in both anger and effort. Unlike some of their year-mates, Malfoy didn’t seem to gain much muscle-mass from their P.E classes. Goyle and Crabbe, for example, both had their neck growing even thicker and shoulders even wider. Between them both, Malfoy looks like a twig.

Professor Levi turns to him, expression fixated like plastic.

“I don’t need to track through the mud like a _peasant_ ,” Malfoy seethes, “this whole class is redundant and ridiculous!”

People gasp. Rather loudly.

Harry, too. Malfoy was always a git, but there'd been some freshly shoved sticks up his arse, apparently. 

“He’s a Professor!” Hermione shrieks at Malfoy, looking like she was just told by Professor Trelawney she had a vision of Hermione unfortunately failing all of her NEWTs and Crookshanks dying from an undiagnosed peanut-allergy within the next month.

Harry agrees. They’ve become complacent, since Professor Levi never took or gave any house points for anything. He’d never given them detention, either. And, if the rumors are true, he’s probably a squib who is a head shorter than Malfoy, Unlike Hagrid. Who Malfoy manipulated when he was thirteen.

The silence stretches.

Professor Levi sets the pocket watch in his pocket, and turns to Malfoy.

“Is that what you think?” He asks him, voice soft, taking a few steps towards him. It reminds Harry of Professor Snape’s voice when he’s threatening someone he'd _accidentally_ drop Veritaserum into their pumpkin-juice.

“It’s not just me,” Malfoy says, because he’s a coward. He seems to force himself to keep looking Professor Levi in the eyes, trying to square his shoulders while still catching his breath.

The silence stretches some more.

Harry thinks that it would snap, at some point.

It does.

“Let’s say you’re in a fight,” Professor Levi starts, looking at Malfoy. “What’s the first thing you’d do?”

Malfoy seems taken aback for a moment, probably unsure if he’s being threatened by a teacher.

“I’d hex them!” Malfoy responds, a sneer onto his face. “ _I_ have a wand.”

Professor Levi looks as him some more. Then, he looks down at his feet. Everyone stares, panting, as he circles around aimlessly, before dropping and picking something from the ground.

“Let’s say that’s your wand,” Professor Levi turns back to Malfoy, holding the muddy stick with his left hand. Malfoy looks both disgusted and slightly fearful. “You’re in a fight. And somehow you dropped it. I just picked it up.”

A loud snap.

Professor Levi is now holding two shorter sticks, one with each hand, their edged jagged.

“Now what do you do?”

“You can’t do that,” Malfoy argues, flush raising to his face.

“I just did. What do you do?”

Harry must be trapped inside an illusion.

Surely, it couldn’t possibly, that a Professor at Hogwarts is giving their class – an _educational moment_?

“I’m not going to _drop_ my wand.” Malfoy insists, and his body is tense. Harry thinks he’s probably holding himself back from stomping his feet like an irate toddler.

“Fair enough. Let’s say someone else made you drop your wand. The person you were fighting with. Let’s say they were shooting at you.” Professor Levi continues, voice perfectly leveled. You could level any building with Professor Levi’s voice at that moment. It was almost mesmerizing.

“Now what do you do?”

Malfoy doesn’t respond.

“Do you run? Or do you fight?” Professor Levi presses.

“Of course I’d fight!” Malfoy spits. Maybe he realized he was over his head, and the scene he is making is not playing out according to his script.

“You’d be dead, then.” Professor Levi responds. “It’s good you brought this to my attention, Blondie. It appears you were not told these things.”

Harry squints at them. He thinks, privately, that if by next class Professor Binns would actually move past the Goblin Wars, he’s going to get checked with Madam Pomfrey. Could those be those previous times he’d been dropped from his broom or bludgered in the head, coming back to bite him?

“Gather up!” Professor Levi calls, and everyone steps towards them in disbelief, forming a smushed circle. The Slytherins look like they’re waiting for Professor Levi to deduct three-thousand House points. The Gryffindors are thinking more like five-thousand, maybe with a collective year-long detention.

“If you’re ever in a fight,” Professor Levi says once they’re all more or less within range, looking at each and every one of them, “The first thing you do is you run away.”

“Why?” Dean blurts, sounding upset. Harry is feeling pretty upset, too. Professor Levi’s words are preposterous. If you’re in a fight – you can’t just– just _get away_. Harry tried that so many times in his life, and other than that one time he ended up on the roof, he was always beaten up.

(Not that he could put much of a fight, either. But it was better than crying.)

“Because you’re all civilians. That’s not your job to fight. Your job is to live. If you’re in the way, anyone whose job _is_ to fight wouldn’t be able to do it well.”

“So we just need to get better at fighting,” Dean argues, approaching Professor Levi. It’s almost as if he’s on Malfoy’s side.

Harry is getting less and less sure about those consecutive concussions he experienced over the years, and their alleged implications onto his brain.

Then, Professor Levi makes a sound.

It almost sounds like a short, small laugh.

“Fighting? With your sticks?”

“That’s how _wizards_ fight,” Dean shoots back, because he, also, is a bit of a twat.

Professor Levi takes both parts of the stick, and snaps them both into half again.

And again.

And when the sticks are rather small, he doesn’t let it bother him, and snaps them yet again.

“You can’t get better at fighting if you can’t make it through three laps around the greenhouses without choking.” Professor Levi says. “Fighting is more than just wands and magic. When you’re fighting for your life, it wouldn’t matter if you know how to make candles float in the air or fix broken teacups. No one would patiently wait for you to pick up your wand if they want you dead. You could break both your arms. You could lose fingers. You panic. That's why the first thing you do,” Professor Levi says, resolute, “is you get really, really good at running. Or you die. Got that?”

No one responds. Professor Levi isn’t towering over anyone, but Harry is getting chills down his back. He sees Dean and Malfoy both looking away, their thin lips betraying their anger.

Harry thinks about Cedric Diggory, and gets inexplicably angry at Malfoy and Dean's anger.

They had no right.

But he's angry at Professor Levi, too – for telling these things to the children of the _enemy_.

How many of his year-mates parents were watching as Voldemort tried killing him, last year? How many of them were laughing? 

“I was wrong about Professor Levi,” Ron tells him as they rush to the showers after class with their tails between their legs. “He ain’t just mental. He’s entirely bonkers.”

* * *

It’s Dean that gives them the latest news. Apparently Malfoy Senior has decided to deign his presence upon the school grounds once more, after a bird told him his precious son was threatened by a Hogwarts’ professor.

Dean doesn’t even seem that upset about it. It looks like he’s on Malfoy’s side.

But he’s always been a bit of a twat.

* * *

“It’s odd.” Luna says in their study session, when Ginny asks what she thinks about it all. Their study sessions have long been a tradition of Hermione diligently doing her homework, while the rest of them gossip over books they don’t read and essays they don’t write.

“Odd?” Harry asks, because for Luna Lovegood to call anything odd, a blue moon might be raising while Mars is shining bright. Professor Binns did drone on about the Goblin Wars, but Harry’s new suspicion is that, really, he’s inside a simulation. He'd seen something like that on the telly, once.

He’s not sure how that works, yet. Not many muggle books at the library to figure that one out. He makes sure to schedule researching it between later and never.

“There's the way he holds his teacup," Luna nods at Harry. "He never uses the handle." She pauses for a moment, considering. "It could be that he read about the Wizengamot Handle Fiasco, I can't remember all the details, it was quite the scandal 22 years ago, and father never managed to discover who was behind it all. But other than that, Professor Levi keeps speaking about death, and he can see the thestrals, so he must have seen at least one person die. But he looks too young to have part of the war with You-Know-Who,” Luna tells them with her floaty voice, connecting strings Harry didn’t even reach to grasp. “So it’s odd he’s so intent about preventing his students from dying.”

“Preventing us from dying?” Ron rebuffs. “When are you on about? He works us to the bone and sets some impossible records for us to reach. He’s setting us up to fail!”

“I think you’re wrong, Ron.” Luna shrugs, and turn back to her book. The cover is a worn grey, without any script or flourish. “Professor Levi isn’t that kind of sad. Or he wouldn't have bothered with his teacup.”

On their way back to their dorms, Harry sees Mrs. Norris. On her neck is a glowing green collar.

She slithers past them without even a single hiss, tail raised high.

“Maybe she’s sick,” Ron snorts, but Harry thinks she looks better than he'd ever seen her.

* * *

At dinner that night, Harry can't stop himself from thinking very hard at the High Table's general direction for Professor Levi to have some tea. He takes his time buttering his toast, and chews each bite more times than strictly necessary.

When the moment comes, Harry can't believe he hadn't noticed it before. Levi picks up his teacup from its top, having four fingers around the rim, and sipping at it in a bizarre angle.

Harry tries to imitate the grasp later that night with a stray toothbrush cup, but finds it mighty unpractical.

It was pretty odd.

Harry wondered where Professor Levi had picked it up.

* * *

When they finish stretching, Professor Levi doesn’t pull out his watch.

“We’re trying something different, today.” He tells them. “We’re going to run together.”

“Together?” Nott asks, rather snottily.

“As a group,” Professor Levi clarifies.

“You too, Professor?” Dean Thomas asks, because he’s still a twat. Even Harry thinks he’s out of bounds.

“I’d be in the rear.” Professor Levi nods, to even more flabbergasted stares. “Let’s go.”

By the end of their first lap around the greenhouses, Professor Levi is not even sweating.

By the middle of their second lap, everyone is slowly coming to realize it had been a very bad idea.

By the end of the second lap, Professor Levi is not even breathing hard. He keeps a steady pace all throughout. And since he’s in the rear, no one can fall back from their collective pace. Not by much.

Feelings his lungs burn and the saliva thicken in his dry throat, Harry thinks they might’ve underestimated Professor Levi.

They don’t make it through a third lap.

Professor Levi hands Dean his silver pocket watch.

“I’ve received some interesting correspondent,” Professor Levi speaks, unruffled, and Harry swears the temperature of the air around them drops by a few degrees. “Telling me I ought to lead by example. I'd be running to the Quidditch Pitch.”

Everyone is gasping for breath like they were just waterboarded. Zabini is dry-heaving a few feet from them, with Nott by his side.

“How about you time me, Curly-cut?”

Dean grasps the watch harder in his hand.

“Go.” He says, and Professor Levi is off.

Everyone can just stare. Harry thinks that this is what _awe_ must feel like. Because Professor Levi had been teaching them for a few months now, and he’d never seen him move like that. He makes them all look like wrinkly amputated turtles, barely making do.

“Holy shit,” Ron manages to gasp. Harry nods in agreement.

“There’s no chance he’s going to make it,” Malfoy snorts, but it doesn’t sound like he even believes it himself. Just being a wanker, as usual. “He’d just ran two laps with us. And those times he’d given us are nonsense, anyway – “

Malfoy shuts up when they see Professor Levi running towards them at the distance. It doesn’t make sense, the way he moves. Someone as short as him couldn’t just gobble up these distances like it’s nothing.

But he does.

“Time,” Professor Levi says, only slightly out-of-breath, when he stops several feet from Dean, whose eyes are wide as he looks down at the score. Professor Levi himself does seem like he made some effort, now. He’s controlling his breathing, but Harry can see his chest expanding more than usual. His hair is windswept and slick with sweat. There’s dampness beneath his armpits. And he is still jogging lightly in place, not stopping entirely, elbows tucked by his side and arms up.

It's the first time Harry notices Professor Levi's arms and calves, corded with firm muscle.

Dean reads the score out loud. It’s one minute and forty-one seconds less than their required goal.

Professor Levi just nods at him, and Dean wordlessly hands him his pocket watch back.

“Wavy-hair,” Professor Levi calls to Nott, who’s still by Zabini’s side, as he jogs towards them both. “Take Close-cropped to the doctor.”

“The doctor?” Nott asks.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Professor Levi clarifies. “You have any classes later?”

Nott shakes his head.

“I have Arithmancy.” Zabini rasps.

“You have a pass, then. I’d talk with your Professor. Make sure to rest properly.”

“I think he’s going to murder one of us soon,” Ron whispers to Harry after they’re dismissed, sounding quite distressed.

Harry think he might be needing to read about long term comas, because they’re way past the Fevered Dream stage, by now.

* * *

Then, someone sees Professor Levi flying on a broom.

Apparently, it’s quite an experience.

The next stage of the rumor-mill insists that Professor Levi is involved in a ring of underground Quidditch, an expression that Harry finds quite amusing. He’s a seeker, of course, anyone can tell by his build – and he’s hiding away after a game he refused to sell.

Kicked a lot of angry hives, that day.

The creature-ancestry is also kicking back up, after his performance. Professor Levi had been demonstrating his speed in each and every class, for each and every year.

No one can run that quickly is the general consensus. No human, that is.

Harry hears a lot more discussions regarding interspecies relationship between wizards, witches and an assortment of magical creatures than he'd personally care for.

"It's quite silly," Luna agrees, nodding over her new book, which has a velvet cover and fits in the palm of her hands.

"No it's not," Ron argues, because they have an essay to hand in tomorrow morning. It might also be because just the other day, an unfortunate First-year Hufflepuff almost had their pet rat killed by Professor Levi. The rat was new, and they carried it around everywhere, even to their P.E. class, where Professor Levi nearly smashed the rat's brains out. He then proceeded to express a great amount of disbelief that anyone would carry a "disease-infested creature" on their person by choice, and notified the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws present that rats _can and would_ feast on infants, should they be left unsupervised. He sent the student and their rat away, and cautioned that any other students that would be foolish enough to bring these "plague-inducing shitstains" to class would face Consequences.

This did nothing to further endear him to Ron.

Luna just shrugs, and Ron has no choice but to dip his quill into the ink and make his letters as large as possible.

* * *

"What do you think about, when you hear hoofbeats?" Luna asks Harry after Ron had left with Ginny. Hermione is scribbling furiously at a parchment, oblivious to the world.

"Horses?" Harry attempts. It sounds like one of the riddles for gaining entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.

"It was one of the riddles for the Ravenclaw common room," Luna tells him, sounding thoughtful. "But I didn't get in."

"Oh," Harry says. "Sorry to hear that."

He always thought it was rather unfortunate technique; all the other houses got passwords, but Ravenclaws had to go the extra mile. What if someone really has to pee? What if it's the middle of the night?

"That's why Ravenclaws are less likely to break curfew, compared to the other Houses," Luna tells him, turning back to her book.

But the hoofbeats stick to Harry's mind, even when he forgets to ask Luna what her answer was.

* * *

A week after the broom incident, on their way to Divination, Ron and Harry encounter Professor Levi on his knees, scrubbing at the stone floor with determination. Harry almost forgot about this particular rumor, with all the rumors that had been running around harder than any of the students during P.E.

“Hello, Professor,” Harry tells him politely, even when the sight of his Professor on his knees scrubbing at the floor like a servant is unpleasant to witness. There's the strong smell of detergent in the air, but it's less offensive than the products Aunt Petunia buys.

“Spikey-hair, Freckles,” Professor Levi acknowledges them both briefly, looking up and nodding at them. “Off to class?”

Harry did not expect further conversation. He is confused.

Professor Levi doesn’t press it, continuing to scrub the floors. His shirt seems to be slightly too snug around his shoulders, pulling with each movement.

“We have Divination,” Ron responds instead.

Professor Levi nods in return. “Did you learn anything new lately?”

“Not really,” Ron blurts, because he has no filter between his brain and his mouth.

Professor Levi doesn’t seem to mind. “Why are you taking it, then?”

“We need the credits.” Ron continues, because his tact was drowned when he was a mere babe.

“Ah,” Professor Levi says, suds of soap running along his arms.

They’re very sculpted arms, Harry notes, even when he's not running.

“Why are you cleaning the floors, Professor?” Ron asks, because when he said Professor Levi might be murdering one of them soon, he made a prediction, and if he’d be the one murdered, he’d be getting an 'O' in Divination for sure.

Professor Levi continues his work, and nothing in his expression changes. “It helps calm me down when I’m stressed,” he answers, startling them both.

 _Ah_ , Harry thinks. In Professor Levi’s eyes, he can see, now, what Luna meant, all those months ago. A distinct emotion that's unlike Sirius's.

“We’d be off then, Professor.” Harry says quickly, grabbing Ron by the arm before any bodily harm could occur. Mainly, Ron managing to shove his foot even further down his mouth, all through his esophagus, into ripping his bottomless stomach. “See you in class!”

Harry doesn’t look back at Professor Levi, but he can hear the bristles scraping against the floor in a repetitive manner, slowly drawing further and further away.

That night, when they’re brushing their teeth, it’s Harry who speaks first.

“Professor Levi is cleaning the castle every day, doesn’t he?”

“That’s what they say,” Ron replies, with an uncharacteristic somber expression. "Yeah."

“Let it go, dear,” Harry’s expression tells him in the mirror, but he still tries to brush back his hair.

* * *

The next day, and the one after, and all throughout, the words spoken at the hallway do not make it further than the ears of the ones that had been told them.

* * *

After a couple of months, the laps around the greenhouses aren’t as bothersome as they used to. They keep running as a group. Some of his year-mates still whine about it, but Harry thinks it’s pretty fun. He’d never been in shape, and it’s a first for him. He’s not getting abs anytime soon, but he can feel the improvement the consistent exercise has made. His upper body gets slightly more toned, and his upper arms as well. He can run to class without being out-of-breath when he quickly slides to his seat. And the running itself is fun, even when there’s Slytherins around. Even Professor Levi’s presence in the rear isn’t as bad as it used to be. It’s not that intimidating, anymore.

Ron’s still pretty sure Professor Levi is going to kill one of them soon, but now he thinks perhaps he’d take it out on Slytherin, because, Dean aside, Gryffindor is doing pretty well in his classes. They haven't been skipping, either.

“He even talked to us!” Ron waves a spoon at Harry over breakfast. “So he couldn’t be that upset, y’know?”

At the High Table, Professor Levi is sitting next to Hagrid. They’re not talking, but it strikes Harry how _small_ Professor Levi is, for an adult. It’s true Hagrid isn’t quite a fair comparison, but still. It’s just so odd. Professor Levi looks tense. He cleans his plate much quicker than usual and doesn't even stay to take his tea before leaving.

Hagrid waves to Harry with a cheerful smile and Harry happily waves back.

Professor Levi isn't at the High Table at dinner, and neither is Mr. Filch. 

* * *

“I’ve figured it out,” Luna tells them over another gossip-session. Today she holds a large, fancy tome, with many bright sticky-notes sticking from the top of its pages. Some of them are shaped like unicorns. Others look like toads. Some of the toads, Harry notes, are blinking.

“Figured what out?” Harry indulges her, because he’d do anything possible to keep from writing about the 57 different stages of the 14th failed negotiations of the Third Goblin War.

“Professor Levi,” Luna says, smiling at him. She’s wearing an odd pair of goggles today, pink and glittering. They suit her, though. Luna has the unique skill of pulling off unconventional accessories and clothes effortlessly.

“What about Professor Levi?” Harry prods.

“Oh,” Luna smiles, “I can’t tell you about it.”

“What?” Ron pops in. “Since when are you keeping secrets?”

“It’s not my secret to tell,” Luna replies serenely.

Harry thinks, perhaps, he might go back to the virtual simulation theory.

The world had officially stopped making any sort of sense.

* * *

The day in which Ron’s divination abilities come to light doesn’t seem any different than any other Tuesday.

It’s cloudy, and the smell of upcoming rain is in the air like a promise. They're three steps into making their way for their first lap around the greenhouses, when they hear the scream.

Everyone stops as one.

Out by the lake bank, downhill, there’s three small figures. They're screaming. Harry can’t make them out so well, but others can.

“Astoria!” Greengrass shrieks like a banshee, and dashes out forwards, out of formation. “Astoria! Run!”

Astoria and the other two with her do not run.

And there’s an acromantula rushing towards them from the woods.

This can’t be real, Harry thinks. The acromantula is bigger than Aragog. And Aragog is keeping all of his clutch in check. They don’t wander out of the Forbidden Forest. Especially not during the day. Especially not by themselves. And they're not supposed to get as big – the acromantula is larger than two jeeps side by side.

To his right, Ron lets out a high-pitched distressed shrill.

“Gregory!” A voice barks, and they all startle.

It’s Professor Levi, and he’s grabbing Greengrass by her upper-arms, turning straight towards Goyle. His face has more emotion that Harry thought possible.

And, like Ron predicted, it all looks decidedly murderous.

“Gregory, hold Daphne. Don’t let her go. Got that?”

Goyle nods at him, grabbing Greengrass almost as an afterthought, even as she struggles and screams at him to let her go.

“Theodore,” Professor Levi snaps immediately, turning to Nott. “Go and get help. Go!”

Without a word, Nott springs into motion, faster than Harry had ever seen him, and makes towards the castle.

"Harry,” Professor Levi turns to him, “You’re in charge of Ron. Calm him down. Don’t leave him by himself.” Harry follows Professor Levi’s gaze, to Ron, who is crouched down, hyperventilating. Harry hadn’t seem him react that badly –

Well, ever since they’ve first encountered the acromantulas in their second year.

“Everyone, Millicent is now in charge. Do exactly as she says. This is not optional. Millicent, I’m leaving it in your hands.” He nods at Bulstrode once, sharply.

Then he turns his back to them, and runs.

Harry almost shouts at him for being a bloody coward, leaving them to fend by themselves –

Only –

Only –

Even as a Gryffindor, Harry can’t quite believe his eyes.

Because Professor Levi is running _towards_ the gigantic, charging maws of death.

“What is he doing!” Hermione sounds like she’s being choked, somewhere behind Harry's shoulder. “He doesn’t even have a wand!”

Harry is crouched next to Ron, rubbing his back and trying to tell him to put his head between his knees and take deep breathes. From where they’ve been left crouching, the scene plays out. Even if he can't make all the details, Harry can still see the players. One of them is nearly the size of a truck.

Professor Levi is running down the hill like he's flying, bellowing as he goes.

“Astoria, Aubree, Philomena!” He roars towards the tiny figures ahead. “GET GOING! NOW! TO THE CASTLE!” The commands carry in a voice unlike Harry had ever heard.

They sob something back, but Harry can’t make it out. It looks like one of them fell to the ground, and the others are torn between wanting to run away and sticking by their friend.

“LOOK HERE, SHITHEAD!” Professor Levi roars as he charges ahead at the acromantula, who is still prowling quickly towards the students. “OI! YOU STINKING PILE OF SHIT!”

That gets the acromantula's attention, and it turns to Professor Levi, enraged.

“He has no wand,” Dean rasps somewhere behind Harry, who's petting Ron's back mechanically. It feels like his eyes are detached from his brain and his arm.

“But– but he is holding something,” Neville argues, weakly. "He could hit it, couldn't he?"

There is something in Professor Levi's hands, Harry notices. It’s hard to see what, exactly, but it looks like he’s holding two rods, one at each hand.

“Are those– are those swords?” Seamus asks, incredulous.

“It can’t be swords,” Dean responds. “They’re not– sword-shaped.”

Professor Levi is still roaring at the acromantula, who had been successfully distracted from the three students.

Its new target, however, is Professor Levi’s head.

Harry thinks, distantly, he might be witnessing their Professor’s death.

He can’t let it stand.

“Don’t you dare, Potter.” Harry hears above him. It’s Bulstrode. “Everyone stay right where you are. Professor Levi knows what he’s doing. We’d just be getting in his way.”

“He’s going to die!” Lavender sobs. There’s tears streaming down her face.

“He’s not going to die,” Bulstrode argues back, cool and collected, like a true sociopath. Forever Slytherin, she has no care for their Professor's life. He's just a squib to her. “Now take out your wands and form a circle. We’re staying here until help arrives. Have your wands at the ready.”

Harry's wand is already in the hand not petting Ron's back. He's torn between running to help their Professor, and staying by Ron's side. Surely, even if he can't do magic, Professor Levi wouldn't just run off to his death? They don't have a substitute teacher for P.E. in Hogwarts, and they still need to be working on their times –

The acromantula charges, striking straight with its jaws.

Professor Levi is not immediately skewered dead by the acromantula, which is objectively a good thing.

All of his calm, detached composure, the image he fashioned up until now, crumbles as he dodges from the creature’s jaws, legs and claws. It quickly reassembles to the image of a proficient killer, bordering on a Dark Wizard. Dodging the acromantula's numerous limbs, he’s so quick it can’t be natural. He leaps around it like the ground is a trampoline, with no regards to gravity or logic. Every second that he makes it through defies common sense.

Unexpectedly, the acromantula shrieks.

“Did he just cut off one of its legs?” Zabini asks, sounding faint.

Harry’s eyes are trying to deliver this message to his brain, but it fails to compute.

The students are still by their fallen friend’s side, with the acromantula distracted, but still within range. The flesh-eating spider is about twenty feet from them, but each joust and failed attack against Professor Levi is causing the acromantula to move in an increasingly erratic manner. For every step it takes away from the students, it makes three steps back; Harry tries to follow its progress by marking its fallen limb, cut in its middle. It flails its remaining seven legs and tries leaping at Professor Levi, missing him but what seems to be barely inches.

Professor Levi keeps dodging the hits with ease, like he’s not being a juicy piece of steak that’s dangled in front of a human-eating monstrosity.

Then, the acromantula screeches once more. The pitch is even higher; it sounds worse than nails on a blackboard. An arrow is sticking out of one of its main eyes.

There’s a centaur, charging out of the Forbidden Forest, sending arrows flying at the acromantula as he gallops towards it. Each arrow hits true, either in the eyes or in the connecting tissue peaking beneath its hard exoskeleton. The centaur seems to acknowledge Professor Levi, keeping out of the limbs' range.

Harry can’t make what Professor Levi is telling the centaur between dodging the acromantula’s claws, but the centaur nods and rushes towards the students. The centaur, golden in colour, looks like a spell of his own when he lowers his two front legs before the girls. He allows the two girls that are standing to climb onto his back, and picks the one on the ground in his arms. It jolts a memory in Harry, of a mean exchange and the use of mule as an insult – who realizes that he knows this centaur.

It’s Firenze, who let Harry ride his back out of the Forbidden Forest and into safety.

It’s Firenze, who gallops uphill and away from the fight.

And now it’s just Professor Levi against a six-feet tall, fifteen-feet wide acromantula.

Somewhere in their group, Greengrass is sobbing; harsh, ugly sobs, that sound like she’s trying not to choke on air or sorrow.

Without the students in striking range, it seems Professor Levi's murderous proclivities are fully unleashed. Harry can't even make his movements as he takes to cutting into the acromantula piece by piece, attacking, retreating, leaping, sending the creature backwards as it tries to ward the attack off.

No one is speaking behind Harry. No one acknowledges that their apathetic squib teacher is at mortal peril, that the students have just been rescued by a centaur, or that Professor Levi is tearing into a magical beast without a wand or any backup.

It seems to take seconds, and it seems to take hours; the acromantula stops at place, screeching at Professor Levi. It's bleeding, and missing two more legs. It looks like its barely holding itself up.

Professor Levi leaps onto its back, and Harry cannot be possibly seeing what's taking place –

The acromantula shrieks a horrible dying sound, much more terrible than the death brought onto a basilisk by the rooster’s call.

It ends with the acromantula’s head detached, as its body drops to the ground with such an impact Harry thinks he can feel the shockwaves under his knees.

Or maybe those were just shakes of his own body.

Professor Levi is on his feet before the body itself hits the ground, leaping away from it.

And then, because Harry surely wronged a significant powerful entity in his past life, five more acromantulas rush from the Forbidden Forest and towards Professor Levi. They're smaller than the one that fell, but by no means small – each the size of a car, shrieking and snapping their jaws with rage.

Harry briefly thinks it's very lucky they stayed put – the outskirts of the forest, where the spiders pour from, is near the greenhouses. If they'd retreated instead of staying put, it would've made all the class far too close to the creatures to successfully fend them off or escape.

"Wands at the ready!" Bulstrode snaps, and Harry jolts in place. "When they reach us, aim for their eyes."

"Which ones?" Dean asks, weakly.

"It doesn't matter. Whichever you can hit."

Before them, downhill, Professor Levi doesn't let the acromantulas reach him and rushes forwards to his death, towards five monstrosities, wandless.

Between one moment and the next –

They fall.

The first is decapitated while still in motion, Professor Levi leaping from its corpse and using its momentum to stab the second closest to it through the head. His weapon, however, remains stuck, and he has to dodge a sweeping claw and manage himself with just one of his weapons.

The third one manages to snag his arm with its claw, but Professor Levi doesn't stop, and kicks it straight in the eyes. When the fourth comes to its aid, he backflips onto its back and slams his weapon into the back of its neck. This time, he does manage to pull the weapon back out.

With the third acromantula still dazed, he rushes beneath it and cuts it somewhere along its middle; a superbly stupendous move, as its weight could surely crush any person to death.

But Professor Levi doesn't stay underneath it to prove anyone wrong yet again.

That is up until the fifth and last adversary. Harry can tell Professor Levi's steam was running out; the smoothness of his motions has started to dull. The close calls were starting to increase. The acromantula was quicker and more vicious than its kin, perhaps spurred on by the scent of blood and by its own primal hunger.

And then it struck out a leg, and Professor Levi did not dodge it fully – his outer robes were slashed apart like tissue paper. A long bloody gash spreads from under his left shoulder and along his torso.

Harry can't hear anything beyond his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

It doesn't make sense, Harry thinks.

Professor Levi – he's dead, surely.

It can't be that yet another acromantula fell before him.

It was not possible.

Yes, Harry sees, there was Death, coming to collect, with bellowing black robes behind it, rushing towards Professor Levi –

"Professor Snape!" Bulstrode calls out in a strong voice. "Over here!"

She sends sparks from the tip of her wand to the sky.

But it's Professor Sprout that rushes out of the greenhouses and towards their group, while Professor Snape kneels by Professor Levi's side.

Professor Levi, who is now lying on the ground, with six fresh corpses scattered around him, in various states of dismemberment **.**

This did not look good.

* * *

In the infirmary, by Ron's side, Harry's initial assessment of the situation is confirmed – as it is not good.

The infirmary is more crowded than it has ever been. Or at least, more crowded than Harry had personally witnessed it, and he had been a student at Hogwarts when students were petrified on a bi-weekly manner. He visited the infirmary so many times he could have a punch-card.

There's the three Slytherin students, all of them third years – Astoria Greengrass, Aubree Ambarella and Philomena Gooseberry. They look slightly scruffy, but they're not bleeding or injured. Physically, that is.

Astoria and Daphne are sobbing and clutching at one another. The two other girls, Ambarella and Gooseberry, seem to be in shock.

Goyle is standing a few feet from them, looking uncomfortable. If it was anyone else, Harry would've thought them hovering, perhaps even worried. But it's Goyle, and Harry never knew him to be capable of independent thought. Perhaps it was a glitch of some sort, in whatever wicked simulation it was; that'd explain why Crabbe wasn't there, too.

Harry himself is by Ron's side on the bed. Ron clamped-up, and his eyes are glazed. He's barely responsive, staring-off blankly into nothing.

Then, of course, there's Professor Levi. He had been rushed to the infirmary by Snape. The smell of blood in the air is sharp enough for Harry to pick up. One of the acromantula's slashed at Professor Levi's torso, and whatever was on its claws, is assures that the wound refuses to mend.

"It looks worse than it is," Professor Levi's voice sounds non-phased as ever, robotic and lacking. "The students?" He inquires.

"They're safe," Professor Snape bites back in an unpleasant tone, and Harry clings a bit to his anger, since it's familiar. "You utter imbecile. What in the seven hells were you thinking?"

"That I wasn't going to let the students die," Professor Levi responds. "Or eaten by a giant shitty spider. Go check on the students. I'd live."

"The students are taken care of," Professor Snape sounds like he's about to wring out Professor Levi's neck. "Now shut your mouth before you bleed out."

Professor Levi sighs deeply, followed by a series of wet-sounding coughs.

Madam Pomfrey rushes back to the scene, but doesn't usher Professor Snape away. Harry wishes he could hear them properly. However, his mind is occupied with other, more urgent thoughts.

That's why he doesn't hear the first time when he's asked, and the question is repeated.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Harry finds it that too many adults are asking him this question far too many times. He doesn't know why they bother. They rarely believe a word he says, and usually try to use everything he says against him. It sounds a bit like those American cop-shows on the telly Uncle Vernon likes to watch, when the officers warn the people they're arresting on the possible repercussions of their words.

"I don't think so, sir." Harry replies, shifting in place. Ron is still worryingly quiet. 

"You don't think so?" Professor Snape looks ready to have an aneurysm. "And what, pray tell, Mr. Potter, are you thinking in that empty little head of yours?"

"I don't think any of it is real, sir." Harry replies, honestly. "I think Professor Levi died, and I'm probably imagining him here. Or it could be a dream." He feels his throat clench. "There were six of them," he explains, "and they eat people."

"Professor Levi is just fine, dear." Madam Pomfrey's warm tone tells Harry. He feels something draped around his shoulders – a warm blanket, that smells like sandalwood. "Come now, off to bed with you. You're in shock."

Harry lets himself be led away a few steps, because Ron is still in the bed next-by.

He's still there an intermediate amount of time later, when even more adults join the scene.

It's three men, and two of them are dashingly handsome in a very unfair genetic way. From their expensive robes and posh mannerism, even Harry can tell they're Purebloods. They all look like in any other occasion, they'd expect Harry to shine their shoes; but on this occasion, it seems their priorities is making sure their children are alive and relatively well.

Harry can admit to himself he's jealous when the three men swarm the Slytherin students, Goyle stepping even further away from the scene. Greengrass and her sister are sobbing on the wide shoulders of a silver-haired gentleman, making Harry assume they both probably take after their mother. Ambarella is hugged by a the tallest of the men; they have the same ears. Gooseberry isn't as open in her distress, but still succumbs to the third man, who is cupping her cheeks before kissing them both multiple times. 

Must be nice, having parents drop everything at a moment's notice and rush to make sure you're alright. None of the men seem like they're going to accuse their children in putting themselves in a dangerous situation or the like; just genuinely concerned for their children.

Harry hopes none of them were there when Voldemort tortured him. He hopes he won't recognize any of their voices, when they finally speak. He just wants to have this image of a caring father embracing his daughters, expressing genuine parental love.

It looks nice.

Just across from them, there's Professor Levi; his wound is still bleeding, even covered with a poultice and with Professor Snape's wand skimming it and murmuring intently. He's propped up against pillows, and doesn't seem overly concerned with the blood that is dripping down on the sheets. They had been giving him many blood-replenishing potions, but still haven't figured out a way to counter whatever the acromantula had on its claws. His skin looks paler than usual, even more so when much of it is showing, as he's down to merely his trousers.

"Are you Professor Levi?" Gooseberry Senior is the first to inquire, looking at Professor Levi with a tight expression.

"Just Levi." Professor Levi replies.

"You saved my daughters' lives." Greengrass Senior turns his head from his daughters, that are still clinging onto him.

Professor Levi makes some sort of noise that sounds both affirmative and dismissive.

"Our family is in your debt." Greengrass Senior tells him.

"Debt?" Professor Levi sounds skeptical. "What debt?"

"For saving my daughters' lives –"

"I get my salary from the Headmaster."

There's a puzzled silence.

"That's not my intent." Greengrass Senior clarifies. "I've meant a Life Debt."

"I don't get it." Professor Levi sounds slightly confused. So many emotions, in such a short exchange. Harry's theory regarding the infeasibility of the situation is getting more ground with each passing moment.

"For saving my daughters' lives –"

"Yeah, you already said it, I got it, I'm not deaf." Professor Levi snorts back. "What else I was supposed to do, having them run away? They're all barely capable of lifting their legs. They can't outrun a spider. It has eight. Legs."

Harry thinks this Dream-Levi is rather chivalrous, in a very crude simplistic manner. He's acting like it's not a big deal, but he's not actually _acting_ – he's being sincere. Harry also doesn't recognize the men's voices, which is a considerable relief. He had too many nightmares involving Death Eaters, and he had this new trauma to deal with. He can only process so much each year.

Professor Levi turns to Madam Pomfrey, away from a puzzled father who looks astonished he can't buy someone into his good graces.

"Where's Argus?" Professor Levi asks the nurse. Harry has no clue who is he even talking about.

That's before Mr. Filch bursts into the infirmary, with Mrs. Norris tucked under his arm. He looks even worse than he did on second year. Harry burrows into his blanket for safety.

"Ah, good." Professor Levi nods at him. "Argus, I can't make it to our card game tonight. We'd have to reschedule."

"You're out of your mind!" Mr. Filch shouts, spittle flying around. Mrs. Norris yowls, possibly in agreement.

"Probably." Professor Levi hums. "I think Severus is drugging me." He frowns. "And the potions don't even taste good. They taste like shoelaces."

"Look at you!" Mr. Filch continues, as if he hadn't heard a word Professor Levi said, dropping Mrs. Norris on the bed and gesticulating widely at the wound, which Professor Snape doesn't seem to appreciate.

Professor Levi sighs deeply. It results in a few more wet coughs.

"It's not even the good drugs. Hanji used to give me the good drugs." He frowns again, then turns to look at Professor Snape.

"I want the good drugs."

Professor Snape finishes another incantation. The wound still seems bloody, but the flow of blood had lessened considerably.

"We can't give you any more potions without knowing what kind of effect they'd have on your injury."

Professor Levi squints at him. "Either you give me the drugs, or I'm taking them."

"And you," he points at Greengrass Senior, who seem like he was just told Gringotts had converted all of his family's fortune into British pounds. "You should go thank that horse-man. Person. That was the one who literally saved your daughter's life."

Some other potions are shoved at Professor Levi. It results in an increasingly more embarrassing dialogue towards whoever is within his eyesight. He tells Professor Snape that if all the people in the world would've kept the underneath of their fingernails as clean as Severus does, the world would've been a better place; he tells Mr. Filch he wishes he'd would've been his father, or even a cousin or a less-psychotic uncle; and outright claims Madam Pomfrey was sent to the face of the earth by a higher power to aid shitty people that are far beneath her skills and virtue. It results with a splotchy unflattering blush, a burst of tears, and with a radiant smile, respectively.

"And you," he points vaguely at Dumbledore when the headmaster finally steps into the clinic.

"You –"

Then Professor Levi promptly passes out.

Harry thinks it's a rather good idea, and follows suit.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore tells the school the abbreviated account of what happened over dinner, Hermione tells Harry and Ron when they're finally allowed back to their dorms. Ron looks better, face not as blank; Harry doubts he'd be willing to step outside the castle anytime soon, though.

Hermione also tells them that Professor Dumbledore gave clear instructions for the students to respectfully let Professor Levi recuperate peacefully, and keep their well-intended well-wishes so he'd be allowed to do so. Harry thinks it wouldn't be much of a problem, seeing as the man is guarded by the fearsome trinity of Severus Snape, Argus Filch and Madam Pomfrey.

The next day's _Daily Prophet_ causes an outrage amongst students, that threatens to boil into outright riots. The front page is spread with a picture of Professor Levi kneeling on the floor as he cleans, with Mr. Filch hovering above him. The handkerchief tied around his hair makes him seem like Cinderella, and not in an empowering manner. The _Prophet_ runs an especially nasty article, blaming Hogwarts at large for endangering students (as if the Triwizard Tournament was nothing more than a friendly Cricket match), the irresponsibility of entrusting children to the tutelage of a _squib_ , and at the same time implying an underlining conspiracy by which somehow it was actually Professor Levi that sicced the acromantulas on the students. It also claims to have several respectful inside sources that provided the facts.

In any other case, Harry would've thought the sources to be Slytherins, but their table is basically boiling with fury. Quills and parchments are out, and many owls are sent back, probably to "tell their Father about this". Whoever is not writing a compliant letter is surveying the Great Hall for possible suspects. Daphne Greengrass is looking especially murderous, with black bags under her eyes and her sister plastered by her side.

"Unity through spiders," Luna smiles at Harry when she comes to sit next to him. "Isn't it marvelous?"

"I'd give it 'unexpected'." Harry says, chewing on a piece of toast. He isn't yet entirely sure he's awake.

"How do you know if you're really awake?" He asks Luna, who's pouring them both a warm cup of tea.

"That's a good question," Luna nods happily, and adds a splash of milk to both of their cups.

* * *

When Professor Levi finally joins to breakfast the week after, he is immediately accosted with cheers and owls. He nods at the students with his blank expression, sitting at his usual seat. Umbridge is glaring daggers at him as he passes, but it doesn't look like he cares to notice.

Then the owls flock around him, bearing the letters of what looks like most of wizarding Britain.

"The next owl that touches this tablecloth," Professor Levi glares at the gathering birds, knife in hand, "would have their feathers stuffed into a pillow and their beaks ripped off their faces."

The owls hoot angrily at him, but keep their distance. They drop the mail on the floor, in an ever-growing pile that Professor Levi steadfastly ignores.

Only Howlers were not made to be ignored.

The first of them finally bursts open, scorching the pile as it shoots towards Professor Levi's face.

" ** _DISGUSTING, VILE, MUDBLOOD!_** _"_ It hollers. _" **YOUR KIND SHOULD BE THR—** "_

The next moment, the Howler is pinned to the High Table with a resounding thud, the knife sunk fully into the wood, sealing the Howler shut.

Professor Levi grabs his plate and leaves the Great Hall in an awed reverence, the pile of flaming letters taken care of by a wave of Professor Flitwick's wand.

"You should ask him for an interview," Harry tells Luna as they have their pudding.

"I already did," Luna smiles at Harry. "He said he can't. A conflict of interest. But he did say the freedom of the press was a worthy endeavor." She hums thoughtfully. "Do you think the centaur would agree, though? He's not a teacher at Hogwarts."

Harry considers this. "Well, the best way to find out is ask, isn't it?"

Luna's smile brightens.

* * *

Professor Levi isn't cleared to resume teaching, and the students aren't allowed outdoors until the Ministry sorts out the extent of the acromantula problem in the Forbidden Forest.

Harry thinks it's rather silly, since the Forbidden Forest always had been bursting with dangerous creatures, and also, the Ministry were the ones that installed Dementors around the castle for an entire school year.

Hagrid seems especially forlorn, not doing a great job at hiding it. He tells Harry every batch has a few rotten eggs, and Harry fakes his sympathy the best he can over tea. When every batch of eggs is in the hundreds, a few rotten eggs can accumulate to a significant number.

Dolores Umbridge becomes especially vicious. Harry can't even breath in her class without her assigning him detention after detention, to the point Harry thinks Professor Snape would blame him for it being intentional. Nothing much can be done; Harry can't drop the class and can't stop breathing (for longer than around twenty seconds or so), so he just becomes very good at scrubbing cauldrons and general ingredients-prep.

Yet, all the tension explodes rather thunderously in the Middle Courtyard, after their Transfiguration class. Ron, Hermione and Harry are all lured by the increasingly rising pitch of Umbridge's voice. Turning the corner, there's a cluster of students watching the exchange.

The most notable is the three centaurs standing in the courtyard, in board daylight. Harry had never seen any of them within the castle grounds, and certainly not up close. They're more impressive than his faded memories from his first year; he had been rather tired, and just seen someone sucking the blood out of a dying unicorn. Without those distractions, Harry can see they're all quite striking. The one on the furthest left Harry recognizes as Firenze, who is standing by his counterparts, both significantly bigger than him. The centaur in the middle is large enough that his withers are probably taller than Harry; his fur is chestnut brown and his torso is tanned and incredibly defined. He's also very hairy, which Harry never noticed before. The one furthest from Firenze and closest to the crowd is a shade darker than the middle one in fur and complexion both, his black hair is waived with complex braids. They're all carrying their weapons strapped to their backs.

Before them stands Umbridge, in her offensively pink robes, with two unfamiliar wizards by her side. Harry would hazard a guess they're Ministry representatives by the immediate dislike their faces invoke in him.

On Firenze's other side, almost hidden from sight, stands Professor Levi, utterly dwarfed by the centaurs. Ron makes way for Hermione and Harry to follow through the crowd, who is watching the tense atmosphere, where it appears any spark could ignite a devastating explosion.

When they make it to the front of the crowd, Harry can tell that the centaurs are highly agitated; their bodies are drawn taut and tall, their tails are slashing the air as they tower over the wizards. The Ministry representatives are clearly intimidated, but invertebrates are always at a disadvantage when they encounter people with spines.

"Did your shitty mouth actually utter those shitty words, or am I just hallucinating?"

It's Professor Levi's voice that breaks the tense stand-off.

There are gasps.

"I beg your pardon?" Umbridge asks, her smile so sharp it looks like she's thinking of cutting Levi up into tiny pieces and feeding him to her sickening cats as she takes a step forwards, wand clutched tightly in her hand.

"Yeah, you do that shit a lot. I'm done with the begging for pardons, or whatever that shit means." Professor Levi crosses his arms. "You're standing before the same guy _ **—**_ " he gestures with his head towards Firenze, " _ **—**_ that saved _your_ students from certain death. The representatives came when you requested them to, even though I bet they got better shit to do than waste their time answering your pointless questions. You should be kissing their feet in eternal gratitude. Their hooves. Whatever. But instead you're here, going about them being almost-sentient, or some shit like that. If I were them, I'd stomp you right in your ingrateful face. It can only be an improvement."

Umbridge's face is changing colours so rapidly it looks like an enchanted Christmas decoration, but Professor Levi takes no notice. He turns to the centaurs, taking a few steps forwards to stand before the three of them.

"Those bureaucrats are total shitheads. I've met a few more of them, they're all so full of shit. Worse than a clogged toilet. What else can you expect from a bunch of mouth-breathers that fight with sticks?" he snorts. "For what it's worth, I am grateful for your help. Without Firenze, those students would've probably been eaten alive. I'm in your debt." He bows to the centaurs, that seem both bewildered and gratified.

"We wouldn't let foals to be injured," the middle one rumbles, voice deep. "That is not our way."

"You live in the forest?" Professor Levi asks, and receives huffs, rather than nods. "If those spiders give you any problem, I could come help getting rid of them. They seem bothersome."

The centaurs regard Professor Levi with skeptical expressions. At least, by human standards; Harry hadn't had any chance to compare. But Professor Levi doesn't seem to mind, as the centaurs clearly shift the weight between their hooves, perhaps trying for a diplomatic refusal.

"I'm better at what I do when there's trees around. Gives more maneuverability."

"Professor Levi," Umbridge is all but frothing at the mouth, stomping forwards as the other two representatives continue in their impotency. "The Ministry would hear of this—"

"You're still here?" Professor Levi turns to her, expression cold and set. "Don't you have some shit-pile to roll in? Scram."

Hermione gasps, shocked, along with a few other dozens of students. Harry feels a distinct, weird emotion he belatedly identifies as positive elation.

Before Umbridge manages to hex him, Levi already disarmed her from her wand. It's quick, effortless, and everything he warned them about when Malfoy tried to confront him couple of months back.

He picks her wand up.

"Go fetch." Professor Levi tells her, and tosses it upwards over his shoulder. It's flung away in a wide arc, flying directly into the only open window who doesn't have students poking their heads through it.

Umbridge looks like she's about to blow.

Behind him, the centaurs are pawing at the ground, snorting loudly through their noses.

"They're laughing at her!" Some student whispers, sounding thrilled.

"They're laughing at the Ministry!" An excited whisper adds.

"Stick fighting. Awfully inconvenient when you lose your stick." Professor Levi tells the world at large, and follows the centaurs as they trot away, the students parting to make way for them. Their hooves clop against the stone floors of Hogwarts, probably for the first time in generations.

"I think I rather like Professor Levi," Ron tells Harry over dinner. "Even if he's bonkers. There's worse things to be, ain't there?"

"I hope he's better soon," Hermione agrees, adding a sugar cube to her cup. "We haven't had class with him in ages."

"Do you think he's part-centaur?" Dean asks, because he's still a bit of a twat.

"What's wrong with you?" Fred counters, sounding gleefully awed.

"And how would that even work—" George chimes in.

"I think he's rather brilliant," Harry tells Ron, with the sound of hoofbeats still reverberating at the back of his head.

* * *

"I've figured it out," Harry tells Luna proudly at their weekly gossip-session at the library. He'd been looking forwards to it ever since the incident at the Middle Courtyard.

He finally solved the riddle.

"Good for you!" Luna smiles at him, and he rolls his eyes, taking his seat beside her.

"I've figured out your answer," he explains. "What do you think about, when you hear hoofbeats?"

"Oh!" Luna happily exclaims. "How did you gather?"

"It was obvious, after I thought about it." Harry preens, like the question hadn't been on his mind for months. "Perhaps the whole incident with Professor Levi helped it along, too."

Luna nods, and her radiant joy is a balm onto Harry's deflating intellectual ego as she confidently concurs:

"Zebras!"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated :) ! Brit-picking more than welcome.
> 
> I’ve written all of this just because I wanted to get a Levi VS Acromantula scene. Ta da.  
> Also: shout out to Daniel Radcliffe for the "Napoleon Napoleon".


End file.
